


Sisyphean

by DelWrites



Category: Bendy and the Ink Machine
Genre: Body Horror, Canon character deaths, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Gen, M/M, Psychological Horror, TEMPORARY character deaths too I guess, angst and such, characters die but thats par for the course so, general horror, kind of? kind of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-11
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-10-26 04:36:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17739131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DelWrites/pseuds/DelWrites
Summary: The definition of Insanity is to repeat the same events again and again, expecting different results. What can be done, then, if that is the only option a person has left?Henry just wants to leave. He's seen the end, again and again, but it never truly does. Not for any of them.





	1. Catch 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> catch-22  
> noun  
> a dilemma or difficult circumstance from which there is no escape because of mutually conflicting or dependent conditions.  
> "a catch-22 situation"

Beading from a freshly cut hand, blood stains a shard of glass. It won't matter- he just needed to see color again. Any color. The glass will be fixed next time around. He didn't mind breaking it this time, he was happy to. He's grown exhausted of seeing his own sanity etched into the walls behind layers and layers of cycles. Each one a coat of paint over something that happened once, and will happen again. The glass made him realize and remember. Maybe, with the glass gone, he'll forget again. He'd like to be ignorant again.

Henry's feeling stiff from sitting on hard wood, his back hunched over while he clutches a bleeding hand. He is, he hopes, a calm person. He'd grown up being called "level-headed" and "dependable". But even then, there's only so much a person can take.

He'd thought about killing Alice. About killing someone who -deserved it- was "bad" for once, instead of failing good people over and over. It scared him, more than anything else- what his desperation was birthing in his clouded judgement. To change things in each cycle, it was possible, but a set path always remained. He wanted to divert, he kept looking for ways to steer away, but now the extremes were coming to him- and he may be desperate, but he is no fool. He knows that starting to idealize the very thought of murdering someone- just to see what will happen- it's cruelty, it's horrific, it's the first step.

To do that, it would be his first step into losing all sense of morality. He refuses to lose his will to it- his dignity. But the fact the thought had ever occurred to him- that alone was enough.

Henry prayed that losing the glass would make him ignorant again, the next time around.

 

\------------

 

"You don't know anything, Susie."

The statement was simple, quiet, defeated. Alice's features went from shocked to pure offense- to rage, confusion, the ink shifting on her features. Her face moved like something artificial.

"That. Is not. My. NAME!!"

Henry didn't flinch as her voice raised at him. It had happened before- this was the same. He calls her Susie and she becomes hurt at the implication. He's to tired to fight further.

Once, she stuck him on that slab she had the Butcher boys on. Electrocution isn't a fun experience, and as curious as he is about where the outcome of a fight will take him, he doesn't want to feel his skin burning again. He just wants something different.

"You... don't know anything, Alice." He fixes his previous statement. Alice chuckles.

The same chuckle.

"Oh really? And what do you know that I don't, outsider?"

He speaks before he can think, saying words she opened her mouth to before she could have the chance. Bewildered and quiet, blissfully quiet, Alice remains still- Henry laughs. Henry laughs. He's laughing so hard he's crying. A fist clenches at his side- his axe isn't here. He has nothing. His veins feel cold and throbbing, thumping thumping thumping thumping thu

"How..?"

Henry's eyes look up at Alice, cold and brown and human and empty.

"You don't know anything. Susie."

 

\------------

 

Linda had a child.

She was pregnant, a bit before he left to visit the studio. She'd come up to him, so nervous, worried- as if Henry wouldn't be thrilled to be a grandfather.

By now, it's been so long, he has no idea how long it's been, but he knows it's been long enough. He's a grandfather.

He was resting, tucked in the corner of the big hub of Bendy Hell. It wasn't comfortable, but he could make a bed anywhere now. There wasn't much choice regardless.

His hands itched for a pencil, a pen, paper. Felt the twitch of his fingers at his side, and let out a breath of defeat. 

He wondered what the kid must look like. If they were a boy or a girl- if they got the nose that stubbornly keeps getting passed down his side of the family. He's been tired for a long time, he's been unphased and silently stoic. Nothing in this place ever got to him, not anymore.

Henry sobbed into his knees.

 

\------------

 

"BETRAYED! ABANDONED!!"

Sammy was stumbling towards him, swinging wildly. This part- it was one of the parts that always stung.

Henry could remember, still- music through walls, seeping through the cracks between wood. Going to and from Joey's office only to meet faces on the same path as him, waving to Thomas along the way, getting stopped by Wally. Henry could hear Sammy complaining a mile away, every time. He was too mellow of a man to be annoyed by it- instead, he had always appreciated that Sammy wouldn't give their mutual boss a break. Speaking his mind, against a man so so SO stubborn, unflinching, it had earned a silent respect from Henry.

Besides, the frustration was... shared. Henry felt worn down by his best friend, even then.

Sammy never remembered him- Henry supposed it made sense. They were never terribly close, being from different departments. But they had been friends, in a co-working sense. He used to find the man a decent conversationalist. An excellent composer. Joey had an ear for the best, after all. But Sammy never remembered him.

Blood gurgled from his throat, the blade of Sammy's axe slamming into the side of his stomach with untamed rage. Like a knife through ham. He could feel his own insides kissing the sharpness, slicing deeper in- he coughed, and choked on his own blood. Knees gave up against the force of pain, Henry collapsing on the ground. Ink seeped into his wound before he could realize- it seeped into him, all of him- he felt as though he were crying in reverse, as it slipped in through his eye sockets- he was consumed, entirely, within a single instant. Then, he was free again, and the pain was gone, and he reemerged in another part of the room.

The confusion never stopped Sammy from running at him again- he was too far gone. Henry didn't want to fight. He let his knees give out again, felt the weight of himself hitting the ground. He waited for Sammy to do it again.

"WHY- WHY WON'T YOU DIE!? WHY WOULD YOU DO THIS TO ME!?"

Henry winced. Sammy sounded so defeated, like his voice was dying from his throat being screamed raw. That very well could have been what it was.

"If I could die, I'd be dead, Sammy."

The axe crunched through his skull.

Henry trudged out from the ink again, unwilling to keep going, unable to do anything but.

"I'm sorry, Sammy."

"SORRY!?"

"Yes, I am! I am, Sammy!"

They were both left in a moment of silence from the outburst. Henry took the chance he was presented.

"I'm sorry. About Bendy, about the demon, about what happened to you- I'm sorry I can't die and just give you some kind of satisfaction here. I'm sorry I never manage to get you out of this. I- there were so many promises. I made so many promises. About ending all of this."

A few times, just a few, Henry had gotten through to Sammy. That was the worst part. They'd make it there, they'd all make it, sometimes. People he'd have to kill sometimes would be there with him another time. It never changed anything. There was no key to changing the cycle. There was no unspoken fix to what was happening. Who died, who lived, it never mattered. Henry tried to make it matter but it truly never did.

"I'm sorry. I promised to get us out and I still haven't. I still can't, Sammy."

Sammy trembled, as if the rooms below weren't stuffy, as if wind could find its way there. His voice cracked, perhaps from misuse.

"What are you talking about? You..." Henry heard a gasp, behind the mask. "... Henry."

"Do you remember me?"

"I... I don't understand- what are you talking about? What promises?" He sounded feeble. Henry opened his mouth to answer, but

"...you did promise me that, didn't you."

Henry blinked. Sammy kept going.

"I... I don't remember-" His hands went to his head, fingers scraping into his ink, sinking. "Is that why I can't stand to look at you!? Is that why!?" He heaved, gasping, stumbling. "You really did lie to me- you were my savior- YOU- not the demon, never that wretched DEMON!! Why did I see you in him!? When- when did I forget you!?"

"Sammy-"

"What's happening to me?"

Henry had no answer. The man before him sunk to his knees, as if the gravity of it all tore him down. There was no answer, none that Henry could give. Sure, he could tell the man that he was remembering things that happened time and time again, that somehow he was feeling his old corpses bleeding their memories into this cycle. It wouldn't matter, though. He'd forget again. He'd forget-

He stepped up to Sammy, digging into his own pocket. He reached down, he pulled an inky hand into his own, and he placed something in it. Sammy didn't respond, or resist- everything was overwhelming.

"Sammy... none of this makes sense. But, I want you to... trust me. I can't keep my promises yet, but... trust me anyway. Keep this, hold it as tightly as you can. Don't let go of it, please. Please. Maybe it'll help things make more sense, soon." Henry let go of his hand, and it fell to the ground, clutching what Henry had given him.

Sammy remained still, but the shake of his body made it clear- the man was still conscious. Henry could only hope he'd heard him.

"Goodbye, Sammy. I need to keep going, but you... take all the time you need, old friend."

The minutes that passed felt like hours to the inky heap Henry left behind him. Allison and Tom saw him, when they arrived- and they left him. They had no time to waste.

Slowly, moments before everything seemed to go quiet, Sammy lifted his fingers enough to see what he had been given. His hands had stained it greatly, but he could still see it clearly. He turned the shard of glass over in this hand, then he clutched it tighter.

He doesn't remember what happened next.

 

\------------

 

Henry's head was throbbing. He wondered why- the drive over had been uneventful, as far as he could remember. He'd eaten breakfast, he'd called his daughter, the day was as normal as any other.

Maybe it was the stress of facing down his best friend again, for the first time in years. He'd always regretted it, as much as it had been good for him. Him and Joey, the idea of them cutting the other out of their lives- once, the idea had been unfeasible. Time took a lot of things away from people, he supposed.

He inhaled slowly, and exhaled even slower. No point in delaying it any further. He walked without even thinking, into the kitchen of Joey Drew. It would be alright- maybe they'd even get along like they used to. Afterwards, they'd go to the old studio. He'd missed it, the hell it once put him through be damned.

Henry looked forward to seeing it again. He walked right into the place, as if it were natural.

Joey didn't follow, though- of course not. He was going to meet him at the studio. What was Henry even thinking?

He'd driven right to the studio that morning, after all.

"Alright Joey, I'm here. Let's see if we can find what you wanted me to see."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to a Fic about Henry in Hell, but there maybe being a Light at the end of the Tunnel. written by someone who likes Time Loop Plots too much. This IS tagged with a ship, but the focus is still pretty Henry and Plot-centric, so maybe give it a shot even if you aren't too into the main ship? Thanks for giving it a shot, if you do!


	2. Defaulter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new cycle begins, with an old face finally remembering fragments of what his mind couldn't hold on to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> defaulter  
> noun  
> a person who fails to fulfill a duty, obligation, or undertaking, especially to pay a debt.  
> "he had failed to complete his job- therefore, he was a defaulter"

Dripping through crooked floorboards, ink pooled around his well-worn work shoes. He had found the shards of glass on the floor.

He wouldn't be ignorant this time around- all it took was seeing those scattered pieces.

 

\------------

 

As it turned out, Henry didn't need to turn on the ink machine. Things would always go south anyway, somehow. The thing about the ink machine, really, was that turning it on just set events in motion faster.

This part became automatic. It was like Henry moved without ever thinking, going from room to room, seeking out the same tools, finding the same frightful sights.

Henry watched the ink machine rise like some great terror from the deep- then, bored of watching, he walked away. What came next was always the fall.

He mentally prepared for the now-customary tuck-and-roll.

 

\------------

 

The coffins had eyes.

Not really, of course. But it felt like it. Henry had no idea when he'd looked in to find out who was in which- he had no idea when he'd written the respective names on the respective tombs. But, ever since, they've had eyes.

They stared right through him.

 

\------------

 

Linda used to love Bendy. She hated how busy her daddy was, but she could see his character on a screen, and that almost made it worthwhile.

He couldn't help admitting that he'd slipped a bit of his daughter into the little devil. The carefree attitude, the childish nature, the naivety. Henry had to stay sane, somehow- one way he'd managed was to see his little girl in his work.

It hadn't been enough to keep him there forever.

 

\------------

 

The end of Sammy's audio tape, the one signalling his devotion to a divine savior- it would end, and then it would echo.

The lack of an echo now was deafening.

Henry put the tape recorder back, delicate and slow, as if any noise could drown out what he was waiting for. The silence never filled. Despite himself, he felt a thrum of excitement.

Something new.

 

His head felt the impact of cold metal.

 

________

 

Dampness- it was the first thing he felt upon awakening. It tickled his head, made his hair itch- like the edges of blooming flower petals were lightly skimming across the skin under his thin, greying hairs.

He realized it was blood- of course, that's right. It happened so early, this time, that Henry hadn't known what to make of it. Normally, the dustpan knockout would happen after a lot of doing other things in the department.

Henry was waking up enough to notice things. Things, such as how he was tied up on the floor- and how he was in Sammy's sanctuary, instead of the sacrifice room. The last thing he noticed was Sammy himself, fidgeting with restless hands, staining a banjo with ink. Henry cleared his throat- Sammy gasped and jumped to his feet.

"You! It's... about time."

Henry scoffed. "Sorry for keeping you waiting..."

Sammy looked startled- then, miffed. This was all conveyed through body language- his mask only conveyed Bendy.

"That's... not any way to talk to an... 'old friend'. Is it? Same as how it's rather RUDE, to call an 'old friend' a psycho." If the words were meant to have any bite, the effect was lost to how unsure they all sounded.

Deep brown eyes stayed glued to the mask above them. Henry could feel his stomach moving in ways that felt unnatural- somersaults and backflips- his body now tingling with nerves set on fire. He felt wide awake.

"You remember. You- the glass- you still have the glass..!?"

Sammy, with great hesitancy, nodded. He pat an overall pocket with an inky hand. It had worked- Henry's idea had worked, against all the shitty odds stacking against him every time.

Sammy remembered him.

The glass, the "magic mirror", it was the one outlier to it all. Wherever it was, in the last loop, it stayed there in the next. One loop, Allison had happened to find it. That loop, it was given to Henry, and every loop after had been changed forever.

Henry broke the tool in a fit of pleading- with the world, with his sanity- to get some semblance of ignorance back. But he'd kept one sizeable shard, in the end. Parting with the knowledge of it all felt like an admission of defeat- that he would give up trying to leave. Henry wasn't ready for that. He wasn't ready to give up- if not for himself, then for his family- if not for his family, then it was simple stubbornness. Or, maybe fear. Maybe both.

That shard- Henry had prayed that it, being left in the hands of someone else, would stay with them. That, for once, someone else would see his writing on the walls, and that maybe they'd know it was him, and god, maybe they'd even understand.

Henry didn't know when he'd started crying. It had been so silent. He blinked- then, he noticed it.

"Sammy... what do you remember?"

The fidgeted with his banjo, unsure of himself.

"It's all come in layers. I saw your message above my... thoughts, to the divine savior. You said I was 'deceived'... I simply felt enraged, but then I started questioning what the message was, where it could have come from- like all the other things I've forgotten, it was scratching and scraping at the back of my mind, incessant! Only this time, I finally managed to form a memory... I remembered you giving me this glass. Then, that memory gave way to why you had been... comforting me. It all came in layers, peeled back one by one. I thought I was going crazy. But you... you're really here, on some sort of cosmic schedule- and you're telling me I'm not."

"You're not crazy, Sammy. It's all true-"

"Then what about my savior!? Why- after everything I've done in his name..!!"

Henry didn't quite know how to respond. The man before him continued to cry out in desperation and confusion- pleading to know why he was forsaken, what all his dedication and obsession had been for-

"If he won't fix me, who can!?"

On the floor in a dripping heap, Sammy sobbed into the cold hard surface of his mask. His voice came out in whimpers, "why, my lord" and "what have I done wrong". Henry wanted to reach out, to offer a hand of comfort- but he remained tied up.

"...I'm sorry, Sammy. I'm sorry that he doesn't care about you. God, you really are devoted. Passionate. You deserve better than... than all of this. I guess we all do, but... I really am sorry, Sammy."

Sammy remained still, body quivering, for what seemed like an hour. Henry couldn't be sure how long it truly was, but he was sure it was a long time.

"What happens next..?" Sammy uttered the question as if it were fragile- as if spoken with any shred of power, it would shatter to pieces.

Henry let out a laugh more adjacent to a huff of air, letting out just a bit of his frustration. "I don't know. I do this all again, and then again. I look for different things each time..."

"Why haven't you shown anyone else the truth?" Sammy was sitting up, taking position in front of Henry, with long legs crossing.

"I just didn't want to put the weight of it on anyone's shoulders. The fact that I know... I hoped that would be enough, to lead me to an escape."

"Then why me?"

"You seem different. You... You had memory problems. I don't know why but I thought, 'maybe that's something'? And I just... I didn't know what else I could do for you. I was tired of you having to go through that, again and again. You'd always ask 'why', and I... I had the answer."

Sammy seemed taken aback by the answer. The strings of the banjo were plucked here and there as his thoughts, jumbled inside his inkpot, collected themselves.

"The 'why'... Why I end up betrayed, and hurt... Because the Ink Demon doesn't care. Because this is all a cycle... and it's trapped here with us."

"Or it made the cycle just to torment us."

"... I suppose so."

The silence felt heavy. Henry, however, felt light. Just the knowledge, that he wouldn't be alone- it was a small, small comfort.

"Hey... Can you untie me?"

"Are you really going to do it again?"

"... I don't have much of a choice, Sammy."

"I suppose you're right."

Sammy shifted behind Henry, setting to work in freeing the man.

"I still have a hard time remembering... but the tapes, they say I used to work here. You worked with me, didn't you? It wasn't just the... 'cycles' that made you familiar."

Henry nodded. "I was an animator. I... I made Bendy. The original character, at least- what Joey did with him? I had no control over that."

Sammy's hands faltered for a moment.

"How unfortunate. I suppose this must all be rather tragic for you... Did we ever talk with each other?"

The rope came undone.

"Not too often, just in the halls sometimes. Usually, it'd be after you were storming out of Joey's office... You never gave the old jerk a break."

"... I see."

Henry could tell the topic was troubling Sammy. He rubbed at his freed wrists, thumbs working over sore skin. A "thank you" was uttered as Henry stood.

"What normally happens next, for you? After you leave this department..."

Sammy stood beside Henry, towering over the short man. He seemed smaller from the uncertainty.

"After the Music Department, I... run into Boris, then Alice."

Henry led the walk out of the sanctuary, with a confused Sammy trailing behind.

 

\------------

 

Sammy was used to the failed, incomplete copies of Boris. The modified ones, the ones torn open, the ones in bubbling piles of ink. Henry's Boris, though, he was complete, sentient, alive. His ears would twitch and his nose would sniff and he would convey emotion through movement, like a true cartoon. Just like the Boris in the moving pictures, he even seemed a bit lazy, leaning back on a chair in his little hideaway, Henry setting to work on making soup for him. Sammy was left sitting across from him, in awe- Henry could tell the confusion was there, mask or no mask. He supposed it made sense, as Sammy normally ended up hurt before ever making it this far. He could only recall a rare few cycles where Sammy and this Boris would meet. 

There were still questions Henry didn't have any answers to. Time and time again, he'd look for answers, but the inkwell (he laughed bitterly) must have run dry. One of those questions was if Boris had once been a living person. He figured it had to be true- but Allison and Thomas... he was unsure if they were real, or some kind of sick joke. The real Thomas and Allison, from what he remembered, never came back to Joey Drew Studios... they had been smarter than him, or just luckier. Did Joey make them? Did he miss the real Allison and Thomas so much? Did Joey make all of this- how? Henry theorized that it was something demonic, it had to be something as out there as magic, but why? Was this Joey's perverted way of enjoying his friends' company again, to use them in some weird little fantasy he keeps watching and watching, was Joey watching right now, could he SEE Henry, did he just not CARE-

"Augh- !!"

Henry had stirred the soup too much- too fast, too hard, lost in thought- and burned a small splotch on this thumb. He heard Boris whimper from his seat, one of the few sounds the character could make.

"I'm alright, Boris... look, soup's just about done, too." 

Once more, Henry gave Boris a simple dinner. Once more, Boris gave him the toolbox. Once more, for the first time in a long time, Sammy was there with him. He seemed as though he wished to speak, but was left without words to say. There was an awkwardness to it all- like they should keep a professional distance.

Boris got to eating. Henry sat on the ground, beside Sammy's chair. Distance... he wanted to close it. There wasn't much need to, but there wasn't much need for anything, when nothing mattered in any cycle. Nothing mattering meant anything could matter, and the old animator was so so exhausted, he was done with nothing mattering. He wanted something to matter again.

"Why the banjo?"

Sammy tensed. "What- me?"

"Who else?" Henry chuckled. "It just seemed like your favorite, but I've always wondered why."

"...I suppose I just like the sound of it. Maybe there's another reason I can't remember... I like how it feels, though. It's light and... uplifting. To me, at least. Why would you wonder about that?"

"Just did, I guess. Do I need a reason?" Henry shrugged. "Maybe it's cause I figured you would like something like... I dunno, a violin or a piano better?"

"Well, they are seen as 'classier' instruments. I suppose the banjo feels a little more down-to-earth. Besides, the violin gives the worst shoulder cramps, and with my face as it is, well... that's too much trouble. The piano is nice as well, of course, but... stationary. I like to take some music with me."

The man on the floor hummed in thought, nodding. "That's as good a reason as any... trying to play anything where I strum the strings always hurt my fingertips too much."

Sammy scoffed. "More than drawing frame after frame ever did?"

"Drawing never hurt my fingertips." He craned his neck up to look at the musician, an eyebrow raised. "How have you been holding pens all this time? Drawing just made my back hurt more than anything else."

"That's a symptom of poor posture, not of drawing too much."

"Huh... guess you're right. I did hunch over that desk a lot... and that awful wood chair always felt uncomfortable on my legs. Drawing never caused me a lot of pain, then. Maybe a hand cramp here and there..."

"Aren't you too short to have hunched over your desk?"

The question shocked a sharp laugh out of Henry.

"I'm not THAT short."

"Well, the desks were always high up!"

"That's because they needed to elevate the papers. Helped the artists see the drawings without any weird angles... I could still hunch forward over the paper. God, I kinda had to- Joey was so obsessed with the little details."

The bitter edge in his voice as he said Joey's name didn't go unnoticed.

"...you said I never gave him a break."

"Yeah- he was always demanding, and it drove a lot of people up the walls... and he would always be demanding in that over-the-top, showman voice. Made people crazy and stressed."

"Myself... included?"

"Especially you. And poor Grant, god, that guy had to do all of Joey's math."

"His... math?"

"He was an accountant. Number-cruncher, stuck with one of the most thoughtless business owners. Poor guy was living a nightmare."

Henry remembered the poor man practically ripping his hair out over Joey, pacing and picking at his fingernails, as he was inclined to do when stressed. Once, Grant had begged him to talk sense into Joey. "Tell me there's something you can do," he'd whined, "He's your best friend! The man just won't listen to anyone who knows what they're doing!"

"He definitely won't listen to me, either," was Henry's exasperated reply. He'd offered Grant a firm pat and squeeze of the shoulder, a 'hang in there' gesture. The accountant kept pleading to god, after that, for Joey Drew to get some kind of sense.

The gurgling, bubbling wails of a dying man were the last thing Henry remembered of Grant Cohen. He had yet to see what he'd become, in all the cycles he'd gone through. Whether he was morbidly curious, or silently grateful, that he'd been spared the sight of another old, long lost friend in misery, Henry wasn't fully sure how to feel. Even though he never knew the man too closely, Henry felt as though it were his responsibility to mourn. Nobody else knew the fate of the despondent human calculator, nobody but Henry Stein, who heard his choked dying wails on tape. 

Sammy responding broke him free of the somber memories.

"He must have had plenty of choice words for our old boss, then. Were we friends?"

Henry wracked his mind. "Not that I can remember. You stuck close to members of the music department, and voice actors... and Wally."

"The obnoxious accent?" The man snorted behind his mask. "We were friends?"

"Wally was casual acquaintances with everybody. Even if he annoyed the hell out of some people, I don't think anybody ever hated him, anyway."

"... Susie. What about her?"

Henry felt his heart clench. Her. Sammy still couldn't remember well, the cycles where he met her in the studio. What had become of her, anyway.

"You two were very close." The statement came out more clipped than Henry had meant it to. Luckily, his conversation partner had seemed too lost in thoughts to notice.

"She had... a very nice voice."

Henry remembered how he'd almost wanted to kill her. To make something new happen- to see if killing an 'evil' in these cycles would have an effect. He remembered that her name is Susie, was Susie, is Alice, but really isn't. He remembered a distraught woman, losing her connection to a job that brought her immense joy. Wally had swooned over her a few times, before Norman Polk or Thomas Conner would walk past, smack him on the back, and remind him he had cleaning to do. Susie would pull off Wally's hat, ruffle his hair on the way to record. She would make fun of some man outside of work, and Sammy would laugh. All these little moments, in between work and lunch and breaks and work, Henry felt preyed upon by these memoirs he'd barely noticed he'd kept inside.

The feeling of blood, viscous, syrupy ink, dripping through his fingers, seeping into the cracks and wrinkles of his hands, as Boris died. The barbaric shrieks of rage as Alice came charging towards him. The laughter, feverish and manic, as he'd felt volts of lightning pass through him in bursts, the burning of his hair and skin and the charring of his muscles, the times she'd managed to reach him before Allison could help, and he'd felt fake human hands clawing and tearing through him as if possessed by a feral need.

She had a very nice voice.

Henry nodded in agreement with Sammy's statement. He didn't have any words to speak. Besides, Sammy seemed preoccupied with his own thoughts anyway.

They fell into silence. Henry wasn't sure if he closed any distance at all. It settled in again- detachment. His eyelids fell closed. He didn't feel like sleeping, but he couldn't find much will to face what would come next.

He settled on pretending to rest. It was close enough.

 

\------------

 

His heart felt empty. When it beat, it echoed inside, hollow. This wasn't going to work- it wasn't. Sammy wouldn't change anything.

Joey was watching- if he wasn't, Henry would be offended. He thought about his best friend, and those smiles he'd give, and those dreams they'd spend afternoons talking about. The fantasies they'd teamed up to bring to life. This unreality he lived through.

His heart beat faster. No limits, Joey had said, there were no limits to what his imagination would make achievable. Joey hadn't lied. He'd just never been specific, about this plan of his, about this wonderland he'd put all his old, innocent employees in, about the rabbit hole he'd trip them into. He thought about his best friend, about those smiles he'd give. Joey was smiling.

His heart beat faster. There was something in his heart now, and Joey's smile put it there. Who cared if Sammy would change anything, who cared what would and wouldn't work- it was worth it to try, no matter what. No matter what. Just keep trying. Joey's smiling, right now.

Henry is going to change that.

 

\------------

 

Sammy had called her "Susie".

Alice called Sammy an abomination.

Henry, Sammy, and Boris all got to work.

 

\------------

 

"I'm not very fond of being an errand boy."

Sammy's feet plip-plopped on the wood of the floors they went back-and-forth to, searching for power cores. They had both been pawed at and swarmed by searchers and Butcher Gang failures the whole way, ill-equipped to fight back. Henry had become so used to the monotony of these tasks, he'd almost forgotten how he'd felt the first times around. Sammy seemed to be a reminder of what it had felt like, once.

"You could have stayed with Boris." He reminded his tag-along.

"Well, if I'd known how much of a useless to-and-fro she'd send us on..." Sammy sighed. "No, I would probably get restless, just waiting."

"Fair enough."

Henry pulled out another power core from a valve panel, as Sammy looked through his glass shard, from walls to floor. As Henry stepped to continue, Sammy remained still, mask's gaze affixed below the valve panel. He was reading, if Henry had to guess. What message had he left there, ages ago- he could hardly recall.

"How many times have you done this?" He lowered his hand, and the glass shard with it. Henry looked back at him.

"More times than I can count."

 

\------------

 

An ocean spread before the duo. The whirring of a projector echoed in the submerged halls- Henry dreaded this part.

"Sammy-"

"I can't go down there."

"Yeah."

Sammy stood at the top of the stairs, anxiously eyeing the Inky Abyss. His right hand gripped the guardrail tightly, flexing a bit against it. Just being near seemed to great a quiet, thrumming terror in him.

"Don't worry, I'll be quick. I remember where the hearts normally are."

His pants got thoroughly soaked as he waded through the ink. The feeling of it oozing through his socks and clothing always felt discomforting, but he pressed on.

Avoiding Norman- the Projectionist, was always his first priority here. Not out of any fear for his life, but solely because he didn't want to upset what had become of the once calm soul he knew. Henry hated to see him, shambling about, like a ghost trudging through the halls that stole his life.

He had to remind himself it wasn't Norman anymore. Norman was a tired, older man- yet still, occasionally, kind. Exasperated and unwilling to take anyone's shit- stubborn as hell. He would talk to Wally when the man slacked off nearby him, about god knows what. The Projectionist was someone- something else. More animal than human, all instinct, but the one thing Henry would say it and Norman had in common, was that they both seemed to just want to be left alone. Don't touch their things, don't get in their way, just leave them alone.

After giving the maze the runaround numerous times, he was pretty good at avoiding the living projector. Henry could tell pretty quickly where he was by simply listening for that clicking reel- and he would run as fast as his legs could carry him, whenever he touched one of the ink hearts that seemed almost connected to the Projectionist. He'd found them in the same spots as usual, waiting for him.

They remained another yet-unsolved mystery. Henry had no clue what they were, where they came from, why Alice needed them- he should ask, this time. His hand was on the heart, he grabbed it, he ran, shoving his legs through the thick sludge around him. Then, he heard it- the enraged howl of the Projectionist. Far outside of the walls of the maze. Henry didn't understand, why wouldn't he have been-

Sammy's scream tore shrilly through the thick ink of his throat, reverberating through the walls, as if making them shake with the force of it.

Henry tore through the ink, heart clutched tightly. He heard it before he saw it, the "ssshhllck" of flesh- ink- of whatever living tissue the ink beings had- as the Projectionist, Sammy underneath, grabbed at the musician like a frenzied beast, tearing, ripping, mangling, sshlck, sshlck sshlck

Henry gripped the ink hearts tighter and yelled.

"HEY!!"

The projector swung its spotlight upon him at the bottom of the stairs, and then he was at the top, throwing the full weight of himself onto the Projectionist. He could afford to die, it would be fine, just get him off of Sammy- Henry was thrown to the ground by the enraged ink monster, its grasping hands reaching for the ink hearts. Chucking one with the strength he could manage, it plapped against the wood floor far from where he struggled, sending the Projectionist after it.

Henry scrambled to Sammy, his body spread in splatters and splotches of ink, rorschached against the boards around them. Sammy didn't need to breathe, as far Henry knew, but he was still heaving in hysterics, chest gaping open as his carcass grew drippier, melting. His hand, fingers merging together, clamped against Henry's forearm. The mask and the overalls lost what little color they had, liquefying into his frame. 

The cavern of his torn body revealed what had led to this- there was one organ left inside ink humans after all. A pumping, deliquescing heart, coming to a stop.

Sammy stopped moving. His heart was starting to go along with his body. Henry had thrown the heart he needed away, to the Projectionist.

He grasped Sammy's dying heart before he could think, tearing it from the dying man. Sammy completely dissolved away, his heart silent and unmoving in Henry's bloodstained hands. He could hear the thump of the Projectionist's feet, the beast beginning to lumber into movement once more.

Henry made a run for it. As usual, he made it out alive.

Only him.

 

\------------

 

"Let me in. Or else I won't give you what you want."

The door to Alice's room remained shut.

"Why do you think you're in any position to make demands?"

His teeth clenched without his notice.

"Alice. I want to talk to you, face to face."

"Why?"

"I've done everything you asked- isn't that enough?"

Her sigh crackled through speakers.

"I suppose so, errand boy."

The doors opened.

The trek to the "torture room" was uneventful, the horrorshow around him something he'd grown numb to, through exposure. The worry Boris went through when here did give him a degree of sympathy for the hell all the corpses there had gone through, but otherwise, he had simply remained melancholic about the morgue. The door opened for him, and he alone stepped through.

"I see you have my ink hearts. Good job, errand boy." She quipped, the door staying open behind him. He supposed she didn't expect him to stick around for long. "Where's dear Sammy? Lost your pet sheep?"

Henry inhaled. Then exhaled.

"Don't play around with me. I'm the one who has what you want, after all."

"So, you DID come here to hold them for ransom?"

"No. I just have a lot of questions."

"I might have answers- spit them out already."

Henry sighed.

"Why did you do this to yourself, Susie?"

That resulted in a tense silence, the full force of her rage immediate before she could even gather her words.

"That. Isn't my name."

"But it was, once. And now you're someone new, who will kill other people and have fun doing it, all for her own... what?"

"I do what I MUST, to be PERFECT!!"

"But why? Why do you need this? What part of any of this is perfect?"

"I AM!" She sighed at her own outburst, running a hand through her hair, as if to calm down. "At least, I will be. I'm what matters- I can still think, and talk, and act- and I've been through a LOT. A deserve to have this! And I don't need to prove that to YOU. Just give me what I want, and I'll let you go-"

"You'll take Boris, then pray this place kills me before I run into you again."

"I- what?"

"He's a perfect Boris. Alive, sentient, innocent. Tell me I'm wrong- that you won't just backstab us."

She didn't tell him that- instead, she laughed.

"I guess it's no surprise that you're smarter than you look. You had to have an imagination to work so well here."

"It doesn't take a lot of thinking outside the box. You made it obvious. There's Boris corpses right outside your door."

"Hmm. Good point." She chuckled. "What are you going to do, then? Try to stop me? You're unarmed, and I'm safe behind this glass. You could test your luck with camping out on one of these floors, but food will run out eventually, or the Ink Demon will find you. What IS your grand plan, Henry?"

"I'm just gonna keep these ink hearts to myself. Or..." Henry paused, looking down at them. He squeezed one in his hand* "Do you think the Projectionist can feel his connection to them, even all the way here?"

"Of course it can't, and even if it could, I doubt it can use the elevator. Try harder, Hen-"

Henry squeezed the heart so hard it popped, ink exploding out and oozing through his fingers.

"Oops."

"YOU-"

"That felt kind of... satisfying." Henry chuckled, holding up another one. "Is it as satisfying to watch?"

"Don't get so SMUG- I'll kill you if I have to!"

"Then why haven't you yet? Are you afraid to step outside of that glass? I'm unarmed."

Alice stopped seething, watching him carefully.

"Hm. You're right." She walked to the corner of her room, picking up a pipe wrench. "And I have all the toys I've been sending your way, to do my favors." Slowly, she stalked back to the control panel on her side of the glass. "So. Maybe reconsider this little GAME you've decided to play with me."

Henry crushed a second heart. The glass lifted nigh instantaneously.

Alice vaulted over the podium, body shooting straight for Henry. Her weigh pressed upon him too fast for reaction, toppling him backwards, the rest of the hearts dropping to the ground. Henry felt the floor meeting his back, the wind knocked from his lungs, Alice hurriedly straddling his stomach, pipe wrench thrown back in the air, then slammed down-Henry's arms lifted in defense, and the impact split the air with a nauseating crack of bone. The ache pulsated under his skin, but desperation kept him from giving in, his unharmed arm grasping at her forearm. He burst upward, his forehead smacking into her nose, all of his force toppling them back, switching their positions. Alice kicked her legs, throwing a punch with her free arm, as Henry lifted and slammed her other arm into the ground, again and again, trying to loosen her grip on the wrench- a mean right hook had him coughing blood, the impact making him winded enough to nearly topple off her. His eyes scanned frantically past where the glass had been- and he spotted what he was looking for. Henry scrambled off of her, feet frantically scrabbling to get to the other side.

"You can't hide in there forever, Henry!! Don't RUN!!" Alice was on her own feet and after him.

He stumbled over the threshold, grasping for it, back to Alice. The wrench was raised, his spine a target, Henry nearly being bludgeoned-

The syringe tore through her throat, ink bubbling and oozing over the needle. She gasped, gagging- and Henry pulled the needle out. The pipe wrench fell to the floor, her hand letting go as the shock coursed through her.

Henry plunged the needle into her stomach, and drew ink. She gasped again, ink spilling over her lower lip, and Henry withdrew the needle again. With a thunk, Henry's foot knocked her to the floor. Slowly, slowly, she was dripping away.

"Y- You- no, not like... not like this.... I can't go back there... I can't g-"

Henry jammed the needle through her skull, earning a pained wail, and a shuddering wheeze, then silence. Alice pooled around Henry's feet, staining his shoes. Detached, frozen- Henry felt the creeping, hollow feeling of numbness seeping through his veins.

Then he heard a thud at the doorway. His attention snapped back to reality just in time to see a figure fleeing back into the room of mutilated corpses he came in through.

"Wait- hey!!" Henry's feet hit the floor, nearly slipping into the cold black goop that surrounded the thin wooden pathway leading out of the room. He could see the person running to the inner sanctum. He took a deep breath, then called out-

"BORIS!! CLOSE THE ELEVATOR!!"

As he caught up with the figure ahead, he heard the thud of fists against the blocking doors of the elevator. Boris cowered inside, the man outside pounding on said doors.

"Let me IN ya damn mutt!!" The distraught man whipped his head around, seeking any other exits, his accent thick with panic.

Accent. Henry recognized that accent.

"Shawn..?"

The man gasped, whipping around to see Henry approaching him from the stairs. He threw his fists up, getting into a stance.

"Alright, that's close enough! Keep yerself and yer freaky needle the hell away from me!!"

Henry gawked at him. "You... you're here?"

"Yeah, and I'm not lookin ta be phlebotomized! Drop th' damn needle!!"

Dumbstruck, Henry did as was asked. Shawn had never been there before- had he always been around? It's impossible, Henry would have found him, he had to have found him by then, at some point. Shawn was human, one whole piece, like him, no ink- sandy blond hair in messy waves and curls, ink stains invisible on his black slacks, shirt half unbuttoned, eyes green and electric and wild. Henry hadn't seen the man since his brief time working at the studio, years and years ago- he looked older, of course. Age formed creases on his face right where they ought to be- but the man's spirit seemed just as young as it once was. And the accent was just as unmistakable as ever.

"I... I'm not gonna hurt you, Shawn-"

"Well, ya sure as hell just murdered that lady!"

"That's-" He blinked in astonishment, the words reminding him of his actions. "It was self defense. She came at me first, I swear. Please- calm down, okay? We're in the same boat here."

"Ya ran after me after bludgeonin' a birdie tah death and ya think I was gonna jus' stay there an' letcha get me too!?"

"I- I wasn't chasing you-"

"FELT A HELLUVA LOT LIKE CHASIN', NEEDLE MAN!"

Henry sighed- the man had certainly not grown any quieter. At least the noise would keep him grounded in reality.

"I just... didn't recognize you. I'm sorry." Henry sidestepped further away from the needle. "You're probably pretty confused about everything that's going on here, huh?"

"Ya think? I just came to visit cause the ol' boss man sent home a nice letter! What th' fuck is goin' on here!?"

Henry looked in the elevator.

"It's alright, Boris. You're safe, you can open the doors."

Boris stepped out a moment after they lifted, nervously shuffling to Henry's side, wary of the new man he couldn't recognize. Henry looked back to Shawn, his brown eyes meeting green.

"Let's all take a seat- this is gonna be a long and... complicated story."


End file.
